


sorry to [the] unknown lover

by jamesiee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Bad Communication, Hockey, M/M, Multi, Not A Happy Ending, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, Pre-Samwell, Sex, Swearing, Threesome - M/M/M, Underage Drinking, Unsafe Sex, character with anxiety, in the second chapter, reference to drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesiee/pseuds/jamesiee
Summary: Adam's met Jack before. Jack doesn't remember.I've missed your calls for months it seemsDon't realize how mean I can bebased on thistumblr post: "I’m still here for a Kent/Jack/Holster hook-up after that last Memorial Cup and before the draft, but Jack was too strung out to remember it and Holster’s bitter that Jack never acknowledged they’d met." by @audiophilios.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: most of my understanding of the Memorial cup comes from wiki, and I didn’t feel like sticking to the actual teams that were in the 2009 cup beyond Rimouski. Also, I wanted Holster to play in the WHL but i didn’t want him to be as far west as Kelowna so Brandon was the compromise, that had the added bonus of I’ve been there and Bilingual Manitoba isn’t referenced enough.  
> The original post says they all hooked up and Jack was too strung out to remember, but I’m going to go with a combination of Jack just not being good with faces (which increases with drink) and never getting Holster’s name during the hook-up so he vaguely recognizes Holster come Samwell but doesn’t connect the name to the face until Holster tells him. this probably ends much softer than the original post intended but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Completely unbeta'd so any spelling or grammar mistakes are my own. Please, please let me know if there's anything else I should to tag! 
> 
> Title is from Halsey's song "[Sorry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bwGqfUst30)," -ish
> 
> Pairings: Jack/Holster/Kent, Kent/Jack's more than friends relationship is alluded to but not really mentioned, Jack & Holster friendship
> 
>  **EDIT 07/18/18:** where this fic has currently ended is unhappy. i know im not done with this au, and i'd like to make it an eventual happy ending for someone, buuuuuuuuut im not sure when that'll happen. so. just be warned: angst.

Ending up at the same bar as the Rimouski team celebrating their Mem Cup is a complete accident and one that Adam’s trying to figure out how to reverse without bringing attention to himself as he leaves the bar. He knows from experience that 6’3” is pretty hard to hide (being one of the youngest on the team makes celebrating in bars a constant act of subterfuge), plus his black and gold Wheat Kings hat is an obvious beacon of a losing team among the blue and white of the champions. Adam hunches down lower in his seat in the bar, turning his hat so the logo isn’t as obvious and hopes no one wants to start a fight with someone on the last place team drinking a lukewarm glass of coke ‘cause his fake isn’t good enough to withstand the bartender on it's own.

Adam had gotten here first, having left the final sometime in the third when it was clear the Wolves wouldn’t bounce back from a 4-1 lead. The goal that guaranteed Rimouski’s win came from a Wolves d-man fumbling the puck in his zone and hit a little too close to home for someone whose team was eliminated from the tourney on a similar goal. If Adam had had his way, he wouldn’t have stuck around Canada past the round robin, but he’d booked a flight right back home rather than going back to Brandon and having to double back on himself to get to Buffalo. He gambled booking his flight for the day after the final, hedging his bets on the fact they won had the WHL title and forgetting who they had to play to qualify for the finals of the tournament. Adam learned the hard way why the Zimmermann-Parson no-look is infamous across all three leagues.

Adam startles when the stool next to him scrapes against the floor and someone drops heavily onto it, sitting a touch too close to him. He looks up out of his coke to glare at the person that ignored the “don’t come near me” vibe Adam’s been projecting. Piercing blue eyes meet his easily. Jack Zimmermann is apparently making a habit of walking through Adam’s defense.

“Que bois-tu?” Zimmermann asks, nodding at Adam’s glass. Adam knows enough French (you don’t play in Brandon without getting stuck in Immersion) to catch the question, but he’s also petty enough to stare blankly at Zimmermann. It’s a poor choice in retrospect; everyone has a crush on Jack Zimmermann’s hockey, but staring at him, Adam can admit he might have a different kind of crush too.

“What’re are you drinking?” Zimmerman asks again after a minute of staring back at Adam.

“Uh, coke,” Adam says slowly. Zimmermann finally focuses on Adam’s own and raises an eyebrow.

“Underage,” Adam answers the unasked question.

“You know the drinking age is 18 here, yes?”

“And in Manitoba, and Alberta too. I’m 17, not stupid.” Adam fights to keep from rolling his eyes and doesn’t do a very good job.

“You don’t look 17,” Zimmermann says, squinting at Adam. He shakes his head and gives Adam a once over and if he wasn’t a hockey player, Adam would be more certain that he was being checked out.

“Yeah, well…” Adam doesn’t know how to reply, doesn’t know why Zimmermann is talking to him. Doesn’t really want to talk to him either if he’s being honest, even if prior to losing 7-0 to his team, talking with Zimmermann would probably have made Adam’s entire month. But he’s vaguely embarrassed that he’s ended the season by being swept in the championship tournament and annoyed that out of all the bars he could’ve possibly gone to in the city, he found the one where the hockey team celebrates.

Zimmermann catches the bartender’s attention and leans over the bar, ordering in rapid French. Adam figures that’s the end of their conversation, he shifts so he’s not pressed so close to Zimmermann. He finishes the watery remnants of his coke and takes to glaring at the empty glass, debating between getting another one or just leaving to go back to his empty hotel room and stare at the walls there. Zimmermann takes the choice away when he slides another coke over to Adam.

“Uh.” Adam stares at Zimmermann, really out of his depth. “Shouldn’t I be buying you a drink for winning the Memmer?” Adam eventually asks.

“I’m not drinking a soft drink to celebrate a win,” Zimmermann says with an eye roll, assuming Adam knows what a soft drink is. His accent comes out thick around “celebrate,” enunciating the three syllables. He motions for Adam to take a sip and Adam does, again wondering who he’s pissed off to deserve getting judged by Zimmermann. There’s rum mixed in with the coke and Zimmermann’s mouth almost twitches into a smile when Adam chokes on the alcohol.

“Wasn’t expecting it,” he mumbles, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.  Zimmermann outright grins at that. He taps his glass against Adam’s and then drains his in one go with no grimace at the taste. Adam is torn between being impressed and turned on until he remembers he can be both. Zimmermann catches him staring again and he hopes neither are too obvious on his face, he’s made it without being hit in the face so far tonight. Their eye contact is broken when Kent Parson comes over to the bar.

“Zimms!” Parson makes himself at home in Zimmermann’s space. His face is as flushed as Adam’s feels for being caught staring, and the hat he’s wearing does nothing to control his wild hair. Adam learns away from Zimmermann again, wondering when he ended up that close. He drags a finger through the condensation on his glass.

“You gonna come celebrate or what?” Parson is asking Zimmermann, but Adam can feel his gaze on him as he speaks. Adam mets Parson’s eyes- oh, they’re pretty- and fills the awkward silence when Zimmermann is slow to answer Parson.

“Congrats on the Mem, man,” he says, nodding at Parson.

“Thanks,” Parson replies after a beat. He whispers something low to Zimmermann, who replies in French, too quickly for Adam to understand. He furrows his brow a little because that’s rude, and considers leaving again. He didn’t come here to be ignored. He didn’t come here to talk to hockey players either, but that’s not the point.

“You play?” Parson asks just as Adam decides he’s had enough of this bar.  

Adam stands and points at his hat. “Defence.” He checks that his wallet and phone are still in his pocket. It’s a cheap flip razer knock-off but his mom’ll kill him if he loses another phone in a hockey player related incident.  

“Number 26, right? Birkhaltz?” Parson squints up at Adam.

“Uh, -holtz, yeah.” Adam corrects, sinking back in the stool, more than a little mystified that Parson recognizes him off the ice.  

“We watched your game against Hali. Your clapper’s a beauty.” Parson slaps his shoulder, squeezing before letting go. Adam’s whole body goes warm at the compliment: Parson may be a bit of an asshole but he’s projected to go first or second in June and no one can deny he knows his shit when it comes to hockey.   

“Thanks.” Adam takes a sip of his drink for something to do. It goes down easier. “Uh, sick goal in the second today,” Adam replies. Parson has the good grace to shrug at the compliment instead of asking “which one?”

“Couldn’t’ve done it without this asshole,” Parson says, throwing an arm around Zimmermann’s shoulders and squeezing. Zimmermann looks pleased at the contact, grinning widely as he picks up the fresh drink the bartender dropped off.

“You guys are good together.” Adam’s been playing long enough that he knows that it’s your lineys as much as your own skill that get you points.

Parson and Zimmermann are staring at each other, long enough that Adam starts to feel like he’s intruding on something. He covers his awkwardness by taking another sip.

“You wanna find out how good we can be?” Zimmermann asks suddenly. Adam chokes on an ice cube.

“Um,” he says when he’s got his breath back.

“He’s asking if you wanna come to our room.” Parson’s voice is quiet but he’s smiling slightly, like this all an amusing joke. His arm is still around Zimmermann though. “Your choice man, no hard feelings either way. You’ve probably had a shitty day, we can make it better. Maybe something’ll rub off on you.” His smile widens into a smirk at that last comment, like he knows how ridiculous it is.

Adam waits for a “no homo,” but it never comes. In fact, if anything, Zimmermann and Parson press closer together. Zimmermann’s right hand, the one closest to Parson, is running up and down Parson’s thigh, inching closer to his inseam on each pass. Adam’s the only one who can see the movement from his corner at the bar. He flushes and he’s not even being the one touched.

“Um.” Adam wants to be touched like that, he aches for it suddenly. Parson’s right, if this isn’t some trick they’re playing on him, they could make his shitty day, no his shitty week, much better. “Sure.”

Parson and Zimmermann wear matching grins and Adam should find it creepy, but instead he finds himself chubbing up a bit.

“Give us ten minutes and meet outside?” Parson says. He nods back at the table he came from, where their teammates are still loud and celebrating.

“Five minutes,” Zimmermann says. His eyes are dark as he stares at Adam. Adam only nods. Zimmermann throws down a twenty and gets off the stool and Parson follows with a wink to Adam. Adam stares after them. He watches them for another second before finishing what’s left of his rum and coke in one swallow. It burns, but it gives him something to focus on while he wills his boner down and waits. He pays for his coke quickly and is waiting outside three minutes after Zimmermann and Parson first left the bar.

The two minute wait is the longest of his life. He’s jumping from foot to foot, convinced he’s misread everything and is the victim of a very cruel prank when Parson and Zimmermann come out. Zimmermann walks right past Adam and starts down the street.

“Eager,” Parson says. Adam shrugs, not sure if that’s a chirp about about him or Zimmermann, and they follow Zimmermann to the hotel that Rimouski are staying at. They hosted, but Adam understands the extra bonding that comes with spending a tourney in a hotel with your team, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to offer his room for this. A full season’s worth of shit is spread out from where he tore his bags apart looking for a lucky jock he thought he left in Brandon and having to move around that would probably be cause for someone to double guess this.

No one talks again until they’re behind the locked door of Parson and Zimmermann’s double room.

“Okay?” Zimmermann asks Adam as he crowds him up against the door. Adam would be impressed with how easily Zimmermann fits himself into Adam’s space, but he’s seen him on the ice before and how just makes space for himself there. Adam nods and that’s all Zimmermann needs. He presses his lips to Adam’s and kisses like he’s desperate for it. Who knows, maybe he is. Zimmermann moans and Adam would take that as a compliment on his kissing abilities if he didn’t feel Parson press up against Zimmermann’s back and start in on his neck. A hand sneaks between Adam and Zimmermann. He’s not sure whose it is until Zimmermann drops to his knees and the hand stays there while Parson steps in so Adam doesn’t go without kissing someone for long.

They eventually make it to the nearest bed.

Adam gets up once he comes down from his orgasms, untangling himself from the mess of limbs and goes to the bathroom. He washes his hands, watching himself in the mirror the whole time. His hair’s a mess, sweaty from the exertion of keeping up with two people and from hands running through it, and his lips are puffy and bitten. He’s got a mess of bruises starting low on his belly and curling around his torso to his neck. He knows the larger ones are from the three games he played that week, but the small ones, the ones in the shape of mouths, stand out starkly from the rest. They look angrier in a way, though they were given with a different intent. There’s an especially dark bruise starting on the hinge of his jaw, where his face meets his neck, but he doesn’t remember who gave it to him to give them shit for it. He can’t find it in him to be that mad about it the more he stares.

Once Adam’s cleaned his hands he gets a washcloth to wipe off any stickiness, paying particular attention to his chest. When he’s finished that, he rinses out the cloth before wringing it out and bringing it back into the room. He hands it to Parson; Zimmermann’s already passed out.

“Thanks,” Parson says, using it to wipe himself off. He’s sitting naked on the bed that Zimmermann is sleeping in, sprawling like he does this a lot. Based on tonight, Adam’s pretty sure he does. “You’re not bad Birkholz.” Parson finishes and considers Zimmermann and the cloth before sighing and using the part of the cloth not covered with come to wipe what he can off Zimmermann. “He always makes it so difficult.”

Adam finds his clothes easily enough. He dresses quickly to the tune of Zimmermann’s snores, Parson watching with half-lidded eyes, having tucked himself under the covers next to Zimmermann.

“You could stay,” Parson offers as Adam does up his belt. He sounds sincere but Adam’s sceptical of an offer that comes after he’s dressed.  

“Early bus.” Adam’s not lying, it’s a 3-hour drive from Rimouski to Québec City where he’ll fly out of, but doesn’t think it’d be cool to call Parson out on his offer. He might not have practiced it much but he knows enough about one night things to not make it awkward by staying past his welcome. He’s fixing his hair under his hat as best he can in the reflection of the blank T.V. when Parson speaks again.

“Oh shit, Zimms really did a number on you, fuck.” Parson kicks the blankets off and gets up. He grabs at Adam’s chin to look at the bruise on his jaw. “Yikes, that’s something.”

Adam shrugs and steps back, suddenly overwhelmed. Parson takes the hint and let’s go easily. He coughs and rubs a hand through his own hair.

“Um.”

“Give him hell for this, hey?” Adam asks, pointing at the hickey. Zimmermann lets out a loud snore and Parson nods, grinning. He follows Adam to the door, pulling him down for a quick kiss.

“Always do.”

“See you around Parson.” Adam lets himself out, hearing the lock click behind him before he can do something stupid like turn and ask to stay.

He flips the collar of his flannel up for the walk back to his hotel, but it’s late enough that he doesn’t see anyone other than the front desk person, who’s content to ignore him anyways. He packs quickly and sleeps on top of the comforter for an hour until his alarm goes off and he catches the early shuttle to Québec City for his flight. Muscle memory gets him through security and onto the plane to Buffalo. He ignores all of his sisters’ comments about the hickies when they pick him up in Buffalo but lets Annie try to cover up the worst of it before they get home and their mom notices.

Adam’s bruises are just starting to fade when he hears that Jack Zimmermann has dropped out of the draft. They no longer hurt to touch when he reads that Jack Zimmermann’s been checked into rehab. The one on his jaw is the only one left when he watches Kent Parson get drafted first.

“You played with him, eh?” Adam’s dad asks as they watch Parson pull the Vegas jersey on over his head. His hair’s a completely mess and Adam does not think about the noise that Parson made when he took his shirt of.

“Against him yeah. Him and Zimmermann were a force to be reckoned with,” Adam says.

On and off the ice, he doesn’t say. His fingers press into the last of the bruise.

Adam goes back to Brandon in September after spending the summer training hard. Getting back on the ice with the team is easy and he finds a point streak with his new d-partner from Calgary sometime in November. Adam’s name gets whispered in the mid-season draft predictions and, after winning the Memorial Cup in a 2-1 final against Rimouski, he surprises everyone, including himself, by opting out of the draft. He realizes he should go to college first, just in case hockey doesn’t work out. He’s seen how unpredictable life can be.

So Adam plays another year in Brandon, upgrading courses he slept through the first time around between games and practices, and gets rejected from his first choice school, but is accepted to his second and third choices. He makes the decision by looking at hockey stats and because Samwell’s been on a hot streak lately, he accepts a place there. Adam stupidly doesn’t look too hard at why Samwell’s been winning, distracted by the cool sounding economic program that he wants to major in and all the extracurricular clubs the school offers. He’s not sure if his decision would’ve been different had he realized who practically carried the team to the Frozen Four in his freshmen year on the team.

Adam isn’t prepared to share the ice with Jack Zimmermann after two years of him being nothing more than a memory, a warning of what not to do. He’s even less prepared for complete lack of recognition from Zimmermann at Samwell’s first team practice in August and it pisses him off.

“Bro, you’re glaring.” Justin, Adam’s partner for the 2 v. 2 drill, says. They’re taking a breather while the senior d-pair is out against Zimmermann and a winger who is nowhere near fast enough to be on the same line.

“No I’m not,” Adam says, looks away from the ice to grab a water bottle. He squirts some in his mouth and does the same to Justin when he opens his mouth.

“If that’s you not glaring, I’m not sure I wanna see you’re glare.”

Adam doesn’t reply as he and Justin are called to replace the d-line. Adam beats Justin onto the ice and goes to take the face-off against Zimmermann. Justin’s cough sounds suspiciously like he’s saying, “that’s a glare.” But Adam knows that it’s a glare now, he feels his eyebrows drawn together. Zimmermann is just staring back mildly at him so Adam can’t help the glare. He’s a little bit bitter than one of the best fucks he’s ever had doesn’t seem to remember him, rules of junior hook-ups notwithstanding.

The whistle blows and the puck’s dropped and Zimmermann wins it, sending it flying back to his winger. Justin covers the winger, putting enough pressure on him that he’s forced to pass the puck back to Zimmermann but the pass goes wide so it’s a foot race between Zimmermann and Adam to get it first. Zimmermann wins that race too, doesn’t even look before he sends the puck to the wing, and Adam might be going too fast or he might have a lot of resentment built up so he ends up slamming Zimmermann into the boards with a clean hit that’s a he usually would’ve pulled in practice. The whistle blows and play’s stopped.

“He’s on your team once the season starts, what the fuck!?” another forward with a moustache shouts.

“Accident,” Adam shrugs, pretty sure that’s the truth. Zimmermann’s back on his feet, looking no worse for wear so at least Adam didn’t hurt him. He’s frowns at Adam for the rest of practice though, which annoys Adam even more than being ignored. Adam gets held back for a lecture on how to properly check teammates in the preseason and makes his promises about it not happening again that he mostly means.

When the coaches let him go Adam doesn’t storm down the hallway to the locker room, but it’s not entirely a meander either. He sits down hard on the bench in the thankfully empty locker room to undo his skates. He startles when someone clears their throat. Of course it’s Zimmermann, hair dripping from the shower still but thankfully dressed.

“Do you have a problem with me?” Zimmermann asks. His voice is softer than Adam remembers, though his accent still makes the words come out clipped. Or maybe he’s more pissed than he’s let on. Adam doesn’t know, doesn’t care, he just wants to shower.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Adam says, throwing his skates into his bag with little care for them. He’ll regret that later, but for now he’s pissed off for a reason he can’t quite wrap his head around, but probably has to do with the fact that his pride hurts a little more than he’s used to when faced with past hook-ups. Sleeping with your hockey crush should come with its own warning label: _gives the best blowjobs of your life but will straight up forget it ever happened_.

“Obviously,” Zimmermann replies with an eyeroll. He crosses his arms. “You were in the CHL, right? Did we fight or something?”

“Or something,” Adam snorts bitterly. He rips off his sock tape more vigorously than is needed. He balls up the tape and tosses it in the direction of the garbage can and misses completely. He huffs loudly.

Zimmermann watches him, hovering just on the edge of Adam’s personal bubble, looking extremely uncomfortable considering the last time they were near each other he had no problem pushing into Adam’s space.

“Look, I uh, I was dealing with a lot of stuff in juniors. A lot of it’s fuzzy.” Zimmermann’s voice is quiet enough that Adam actual has to strain his ears to hear the last of that sentence and when he does, his stomach bottoms out.

“You- what?” he croaks.

“You heard what happened.” It’s not a question so Zimmermann doesn’t wait for Adam to answer. “Like I said, juniors was fuzzy, and I was never really good with faces to begin with so if I insulted you, I’m sorry.” He shrugs. “I probably didn’t mean it.”

“Oh.” Adam takes a moment to process, considering. “You don’t remember me?”

Zimmermann squints at him. “Mooseheads?”

“Wheat Kings.”

“Fuck,” Zimmermann winces. “7-0, that must’ve sucked on that side.”

“Yeah.” Definitely not one of the highlights of Adam’s career.

“Sorry,” Zimmermann blows out a breath.

“Nah, not your fault. I’m sorry for that check. I didn’t realize…” Adam trails off not sure how to finish the sentence without putting his foot further in his mouth. Zimmermann nods like he understands, and Adam really hopes he does understand how stupid he feels. It was one night two years ago. Adam’s hooked up since then and even forgotten his fair share of names. Never faces though.

“Good hit though. Clean.” Zimmermann looks more comfortable once he’s talking about hockey. “I’ll be glad to have you on my team this time.”

Adam huffs out a laugh. “Same.”  

Zimmermann nods and makes to leave the locker room.

“We hooked up,” Adam blurts before he gets far. He sees Zimmermann’s shoulders tense as he freezes in the doorway.

“Um.” Zimmermann turns slowly, looking like someone caught in a trap and Adam feels like shit for bring it up, but he couldn’t not tell leave it alone.

“You, me, and Parson.”

“Fuck,” Zimmermann mumbles under his breath. “You can’t, you can’t tell anyone!” He reaches out as if to grab Adam but abruptly stops. His hands go into his hair in what looks like a painful grip.

“I won’t- I haven’t-” Adam is quick to reassure. The panicked look on Zimmermann’s face and the way his breathing starts to quicken gives Adam a clue as to what Zimmermann might’ve been dealing with in juniors. He’s seen Annie’s anxiety work her up to a panic attack enough.

“Zimmermann.” Adam gets off the bench and gets closer, making sure not to make any sudden movements. “Jack, can I touch you?” he asks loudly. Zimmermann’s- no Jack’s, Adam finally lets himself think of him as Jack- Jack’s eyes snap to Adam and he nods, though his breath doesn’t slow. Adam grips his elbows and pulls gently to take his hands out of his hair.

“I’m going to put your hands on my chest, okay? Try to breath with me.”

At Jack’s blank look, Adam repeats what he said in French, pretty sure he’s messed up a verb conjugation somewhere but Jack looks comforted having heard French. Adam breathes loudly, exaggerating his chest movements so Jack has something to focus on. He’s not sure how long they stand there, Adam gripping Jack’s elbows until Jack’s breathing gets deeper and slower. It’s longer still before either of them speak.

“Sorry,” Adam says when Jack’s been breathing normally for at least three minutes. “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you like that.

“You’re good at that,” Jack replies, ignoring Adam’s comment. Adam lets him.

“My sister has attacks like that. Dad gave us all lectures of what not to do and what to do the first time she had a panic attack and my other sister hyperventilated.”

Jack scrubs a hand over his face, looking absolutely exhausted. “Thanks,” he says. “How do you know French?”

“Three years of immersion in Brandon. I graduated high school officially bilingual,” Adam answers. Jack makes a face.

“I always forget Manitoba speaks French.”

“Everyone does.” 

They’re quiet again and Adam itches under the pads that he still hasn’t taken off. He steps back from Jack to pull off his sweater.

“I swear, I won’t say anything. I understand why it’s important not to,” he says softly when he catches Jack staring at him after he’s free of his sweater.

“Thank you,” Jack replies, equally as a quiet. He takes a step towards the door. “I’m gonna go eh, have a nap if I’m honest.” He huffs a laugh at himself.

Adam nods and waves. “See you around Zimmermann.”

And this time, he does.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam sees Jack at practice. He sees him at team breakfast too, a tradition that that the mustached winger, Shitty, is trying to start (Adam thinks he only succeeds because he’s annoying enough at 7:00AM that people just do what he says to shut him up), and Adam sees Jack during the frog tour of the hockey house as Shitty drags Jack into the post-tour Mario Kart tournament. He even sees Jack around campus, usually in the Arts building when Adam’s trying to find the lecture hall his Econ class is in.
> 
> But he doesn’t talk to Jack. Jack doesn’t talk to Adam either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely unbeta'd so any spelling or grammar mistakes are my own. Please, please let me know if there's anything else I should to tag! 
> 
> Title is from Halsey's song "[Sorry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bwGqfUst30)," I just changed the possessive pronoun, and then listened to the song on repeat while i wrote the last half
> 
> Pairings: Kent/Jack's more than friends relationship is alluded to, Jack/Holster, Jack/Holster/Kent 
> 
> There's detailed descriptions sex in this chapter. If you don't want to read, stop at "Jack rolls his eyes..." and start reading again at "This time Adam’s..."
> 
> warning for: underage drinking, sex, lack of communication, swearing, some misogynist language, Kent Parson, characters losing their tempers and being unable to properly communication, characters just being mean to each other because they're hurting

 

 

_So I'm sorry to my unknown lover_  
_Sorry that I can't believe that anybody ever really_  
_Starts to fall in love with me_  
_Sorry to my unknown lover_  
_Sorry I could be so blind_  
_Didn't mean to leave you_  
_And all of the things that we had behind_

* * *

 

Adam sees Jack at practice. He sees him at team breakfast too, a tradition that that the mustached winger, Shitty, is trying to start (Adam thinks he only succeeds because he’s annoying enough at 7:00AM that people just do what he says to shut him up), and Adam sees Jack during the frog tour of the hockey house as Shitty drags Jack into the post-tour Mario Kart tournament. He even sees Jack around campus, usually in the Arts building when Adam’s trying to find the lecture hall his Econ class is in.

But he doesn’t talk to Jack. Jack doesn’t talk to Adam either.

Adam isn’t sure what he expected after helping Jack through his panic attack, but he didn’t think he’d get ignored. Again. At first he thinks maybe he’s just not in the right place at the right time—forward and defense don’t usually interact much in practice unless it’s for scrimmages and nothing said during a scrimmage should be counted as talking—but then in the first week of classes, Adam makes sure to grab a seat next to Jack at breakfast. Jack pointedly turns his body towards Shitty, and doesn’t even say anything after Adam asked him to pass the ketchup and Adam went to his classes annoyed and more than a little hurt.

He can't fault Jack for ignoring him before, for not recognizing him at their first practice. He’ll take it to the grave but he googled Jack that night, something he hadn’t let himself do in the two previous years out of some sort of self-preservation he’d apparently lost after seeing Jack again. Wikipedia told him that Jack had OD’d on prescription drugs (though there was a heavy emphasis on _drugs_ ) and with his familiarity with Annie’s anxiety, he guessed that Jack had probably been on a benzo of some type. Upon further reading, Adam realized that the drugs probably didn’t mix well the alcohol Jack drank at least semi-regularly if Adam’s own CHL experience was anything to go by. Underage or not, there was always a commemorative beer to be found, in winning and losing. The further into wiki Adam went, the less he’s surprised that juniors was fuzzy for Jack.

Still though, Adam thought that the shared experience of juniors, if not actually fucking, meant that he and Jack could be friends. Or at the very least, helping him through the panic attack would lend itself into conversation outside of practice, like fighting a troll together did for Harry and Ron and Hermione. But despite Adam’s reassurance that he understands the stakes, Jack doesn’t speak to Adam beyond simple instructions during practice.

Adam doesn’t get it and it’s pissing him off.

“Okay, what is your problem with Jack?” Justin asks at breakfast after a Friday morning practice. He and Adam are in their regular seats, as far as possible from where Jack sits next to Shitty.

“Nothing,” Adam mumbles into his omelette. He looks up and glares at Justin when he flicks him in the forehead. “Ouch, fuck.”

“You’re always staring at him,” Justin continues. “And like, I get it. Bro’s not hard to look at. But dude.” He finishes by waving his hand in Adam’s face, like Adam can’t feel his eyebrows drawn together as he watches Jack on the receiving end of one of Shitty’s tirades. Adam smacks Justin’s arm away.

“We played against each other,” Adam says, justifying the excuse with the fact that they did play against each other. Once, but whatever. They played and fucked and Jack ignores Adam now.

“Ah, bad blood?” Justin nods like he understands and goes back to his food. Adam nods slowly, at least 60% sure that isn’t a lie either. Adam and Justin have just officially been named to the second d-line and lying is not a good way to start out the partnership. Obviously Jack doesn’t like him, but it’s not because of something Adam did on the ice. Adam can’t tell Justin that though. “Explains the checks.”

Adam feels his cheeks heat up. He’s accidentally ignored Coach Murray’s lecture on properly checking teammates every time Jack been on the opposite team at practice, though he has gotten better at pulling them a little bit.

“Fuck off.” Adam shoves at Justin’s shoulder and gets an eggy smile in return.

“No, man, I totally understand rivalries. I can’t think about Timmy Henderson from bantam without wanting to fight someone.”

“What’d he do?”

“Asshole always pointed at me when he scored.” Justin’s face goes stormy for a second before he smiles suddenly. “Joke’s on him though, it was funnier when I pointed at him when he missed.”

Adam is about to tell Justin about his actual rivalry with Cody Smith on the Red Deer Rebels (bastard somehow managed to nail Adam in the calf with a wrister whenever they played, even when Adam was nowhere near the net), when Shitty loudly sits down in the empty seat next to Justin. Adam starts and looks around for Jack, but what Adam has come to think of as _that_ end of the table is empty, no dishes left behind, so at least Jack’s not an asshole to the meal hall workers, unlike some of the seniors who constantly leave their dishes behind.

“Frogs,” Shitty says, starting in on the bowl of oatmeal he dragged over.

“I’m the same age as you,” Adam mutters. It comes out harsher than he meant it to, but the most interaction that he’s had with Shitty is when Shitty yells every time he checks Jack, like he’s forgotten that hockey is a contact sport, so he’s not entirely sure Shitty isn’t here to yell more. Justin kicks Adam under the table and he looks up from the piece of toast he’s tearing to bits. Shitty’s eyebrows are furrowed in confusion.

Adam clears his throat to get rid of the mean tone that he’s gotten used to defending himself to Shitty with. “Took a gap year in juniors,” he says.

Shitty’s eyebrows jump into his hairline. “In the Q?”

“WHL.”

“Huh.” Shitty finally wipes the bit of oatmeal that been clinging to his mustache for the conversation. “Well, juniors or not you’re still a frog and Johnson wants someone with him to carry the booze after he boots for us tonight.” Shitty looks between Justin and Adam expectantly, blinking when they stare back at him. “Oh right, party tonight, be there be square, yada yada. Who’s gonna help Johnson?”

“Shit man, my bio lab goes late on Friday’s,” Justin says, looking apologetically at Adam. Adam sighs; he figured he’d be roped into something for the team sooner or later. At least as far as hazing goes, running errands for the team is pretty tame compared to the other things Adam’s been made to do.

“I can do it,” he says.

“Good man.” Shitty’s done his oatmeal so he stands up and claps Adam on the shoulder. “Come to the Haus after 5. Johnson’s last class finishes then.” He fistbumps Justin as he leaves.

“Do you hate Shitty too?” Justin asks. He’s finished his breakfast but doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.

“No, fuck off. He’s just always glaring at me.” Adam shoves the last of his eggs into his mouth and pushes back from the table.  

“Hmm, wonder why that is.” Justin’s voice is dry and it takes until they’re at the dirty dish drop off for Adam to recognize the sarcasm. He puts his plate down and flips Justin off.  

Justin laughs. “Where’re you going now?” He leads the way out.

“Umm.” It’s only the third week of classes so Adam can’t be blamed for not knowing his schedule. Justin’s amused look says otherwise though. Adam gets his phone out to check the screenshot he has of his time table. “Oh right, I’ve got History at 11 so I was gonna go grab my stuff from the dorms and finish the reading at the library.”

“Sweet, I’ve got Chem at 11 too. I’ll come with.”

They’re in and out of the dorm in record time, even when Adam has to rearrange his room to find the History book his readings are in. Justin’s nice enough to only laugh a little when they find it being used as a placeholder in his Finance reading. The library is just busy enough at 9AM that the only empty spots that they find are the couches near the entrance. The tables are too low to work on comfortably so Adam pulls up Netflix and they watch the Office until they walk each other to class, leaning into each other so they can both have an earbud. It’s d-man bonding at its best.

Adam struggles to contribute to the discussion portion of his history class, and he’s a little late to English, but he doesn’t spend any time thinking about why Jack Zimmermann won’t talk to him so he counts it as a good day. That all comes crashing down when Adam goes to Haus at 5 like Shitty said to and Jack is on the porch.

“Uh,” Adam says, eloquent as always. “Johnson around?”

Jack sighs, pushing himself off the railing he was leaning on. “His lecture’s gone late so he asked me to go on the booze run. Are you my frog help?”

“Looks like,” Adam replies. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to open the text.

 **> >Johnson: ** _soz man, i won’t be done at 5. jack’s going instead :)_

Adam sends back a _k_ , wondering who in the universe he’s pissed off this time, and follows Jack down the sidewalk. It’s a small consolation that Jack seems as uncomfortable as Adam is with the situation if the way Jack’s shoulders are drawn up to his ears are anything to go by.

The walk is predictably quiet and awkward. Their shoulders keep brushing- the sidewalk not quite big enough for them to walk side by side comfortably. Adam mumbles a sorry every time. Jack doesn’t and Adam has to roll his eyes, though he realized Canadian politeness was propaganda sometime in his first season with the Wheat Kings.

When they get to the liquor store, Adam stays outside. He still has his Canadian fake but using it with his captain seems pretty dumb even if his captain has personally assisted in his underage drinking before, especially considering how getting caught would reflect on the team. Jack stomps back out when he realizes Adam didn’t follow him in.

“Aren’t you here to help me?” Jack snaps. He’s frowning, but at this point Adam would be surprised to see another expression on Jack’s face when he’s around.

“Help you carry, yeah.”

Jack’s frown deepens.

“I’m only 20,” Adam says awkwardly in answer to the unasked question, ignoring the deja vu that coats the back of his throat now. It tastes like rum and coke.

“I thought it was you at the bar though.” Jack’s speaking to Adam, but not looking at him, soft voice countered by the deep frown he’s wearing to stare at Adam’s shoes.

“Uh, it was.” Adam clears his throat. “You uh, you bought me a drink.”

Jack looks up sharply, nostrils flaring. He doesn’t say anything else to Adam as he goes back into the liquor store. Adam lets out a breath and leans back against the store window. He supposes it looks a bit suspicious, what with him and Jack walking up together but only one of them going into the store, but he can’t bring himself to care. That’s Jack’s problem, he thinks a little vindictively, kicking at a rock.

Jack comes back out pushing a shopping cart. There’s three handles of something wrapped in the long paper bags balanced precariously on four 30-packs of Natty Lite. Adam looks from the alcohol to Jack.

“You know I only have two hands,” Adam says because that’s a lot of alcohol to carry between two of them. Jack rolls his eyes and parks the cart beside Adam, wedging it against the wall so it doesn’t go rolling away. He hands Adam two of the Natty packs and sticks two of the handles under his arm. Adam tucks his elbow close to his body so they don’t fall. The cardboard handles are already cutting uncomfortably into his fingers as he watches Jack mirror Adam’s pose, first tucking the handle under his right arm and then grabbing the 30-packs. He looks at Adam expectantly.

“You gonna just leave the cart there?” Adam asks, because he spent a summer cart wrangling before moving north and abandoned carts have minds of their own and no sympathy for minimum wage workers who get yelled at when they roll into cars. “Dick move.”

Jack frowns at Adam for another second before putting the alcohol on the ground while he takes the cart back into the store. Adam waits, leaning against the wall again. He rests the Nattys on the little ledge to take some of the pressure off the handles. Jack’s face is slightly red when he comes out again. He picks up the packs of beer with a muttered, “Let’s go,” and starts across the parking lot. Adam follows, thinking that he’s done nothing to help his case with Jack, but bitter enough not to care.

The walk back to the Haus is longer now that they’re weighed down with the booze. They might be walking slower too. Adam knows he’s concentrating on not dropping the bottles under his arms, which proves to be more difficult than he thought once the cardboard handles start to give and he also has to focus on not swinging the boxes so they won’t rip. It’s ineffective and Jack matches pace when Adam starts speed walking a block or from the Haus, probably because he’s having the same problem with his boxes. They cut across the Haus lawn and Adam takes a stray elbow from Jack in the box as they shove each other up the porch stairs but before they can get through the door, a handle finally rips.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Jack says, watching it fall. Surprisingly, considering Adam’s luck lately, it doesn’t explode and Adam’s saved from having to pick it up when Shitty kicks open the front door.

“Finally, we were gettin’ worried,” he says, beelining for the pack on the porch. Adam tuts, they were gone maybe 45 minutes, and doesn’t say anything as Shitty rips into the dropped box to grab the first can. He barely cracks it open when it sprays all over him. Shitty stares into the can like it’s deeply offended him and Adam can’t help the laugh that comes out. He’s surprised to hear another laugh mix with his, but he looks over and there’s Jack, eyes crinkled as he laughs at Shitty’s dripping mustache and Adam’s memory of Jack’s smile hasn’t done it justice if he’s being completely honest. Jack stops laughing so loudly when he catches Adam’s eye, but his grin doesn’t fade as fast. He almost drops another box when Shitty lunges at him though.

“Fuck, just let me get sprayed in the face, assholes,” Shitty grumbles, catching Jack and wiping his face on his chest. Adam laughs again at Jack’s resigned expression and shoulders past the two into the Haus, leaving the dropped box on the porch. He passes the rest of booze off to Bergy who’s in the kitchen eating cereal out of a mixing bowl.

“Aw, Natty?” Bergy says, managing to speak and frown with a full mouth.

Adam shrugs. Bergy lives in the attic, plays right wing on the first lines, and isn’t nearly weird enough considering he mostly hangs out with Johnson and the backup goalie. Adam hasn’t been around long enough to really talk to Bergy but apparently he’s the kind of guy to eat dry cereal for dinner with a flag tied around his bare shoulders. So maybe he is weird enough.

“At least it’s not light,” Bergy continues. He takes a can out of the box and opens it over his bowl, loudly slurping down the head that froths up. He nods at the box when he catches Adam staring at him lick down his wrist from where the foam was too fast. “Want one? Shits’ll start in on the tub juice once he’s done trying to convince Zimmermann team bonding is fun.” Bergy rolls his as he alternates mouthfuls of beer and cereal.

“Nah, that’s okay.” Adam and Justin had agreed earlier to walk over to their first Kegster together and he doesn’t want to be a dick and make Justin walk over alone, no matter how tempting a beer is after dealing with Jack alone.

“You’re gonna want something to coat your stomach before you have tub juice man, it’s lethal.” Bergy punctuations the sentence with a burp. Adam can’t tell if he’s serious about beer replacing food before drinking. In theory he’s could be right, beer always sits heavy in Adam’s stomach, but he was dumb enough at seventeen to know that he needs actual food to coat his stomach. Before he can check if Bergy is still that dumb, Adam’s phone goes off.

 **> >Ransom: ** _lab just finished. dinner then kegster?_

 **< <Me: ** _meet u in mhall_

“Me and Rans are grabbing dinner.” Adam pockets his phone after sending off the text.

“D bonding, I like it.” Bergy nods sagely, like he’s not licking cereal out of his hand again. Adam nods back and leaves the kitchen. Shitty and Jack aren’t on the porch anymore so Adam leaves the Haus without an awkward goodbye there, thank god. He’s not sure how to stomach Jack’s continued indifference after being reminded about what he looks like with a smile.

Three years, a new team, and being forgotten and subsequently ignored are not enough to get over a hockey crush on Jack Zimmermann but Adam is able to push any feelings he has about Jack Zimmermann out of his mind at dinner easily. Justin keeps up a running commentary about the research his lab instructor is working on for her masters, using big enough words that Adam has to concentrate to understand exactly what Justin’s talking about. And with how animated Justin is as he talks, eyes lit up and gesturing enough with his fork that they both end up with food on them, Adam wants to understand.

Justin is still excited as they walk to the Haus after changing into something more suitable for a kegster, though Adam has no idea how he’s the one getting chirped on the walk over.

“Bro, your shorts are pink, how are you the fashion expert between us?”

“You’re wearing athletic socks and boat shoes; you don’t get an opinion.” Justin shakes his head, grinning at Adam. He doesn’t budge off course when Adam tries to hip check him off the sidewalk.

Shitty’s on the porch with a literal metal tub. He shouts something that’s lost in the music coming out of the Haus and then just waves them over.

“Fashionably late frogs,” he says loudly, pausing his stirring to dunk a solo cup in and taste the juice. He stares at Adam while he considers, smacking his lips. “Well maybe not fashionably,” he chirps, like he’s not wearing acid wash jeans that have been unevenly cut into shorts.

“He’s not wrong, Holtzy,” Justin laughs and goes for a fist bump. He gets the first cup of tub juice for his troubles, grimacing slightly as he sips. “What’s in this, Shits?”

“Family recipe,” Shitty replies. “If I told you…” He makes a slicing movement across his throat with the hand that has another solo cup that he was in the process of passing to Adam. It sloshes onto his shirt, but he doesn’t seem fazed. Adam takes the cup, sipping cautiously. He coughs at the burn of what has to be all of the handles of vodka he and Jack brought back mixed with a splash of soda for colour.

“Puts hair on your chest, eh boys?” Shitty laughs. “This isn’t the official first Kegster of the year so we didn’t get a keg, but there is beer in the kitchen if you prefer. Unshaken too.”

Adam snorts a laugh and salutes Shitty with his cup. He gets a sloppy one back as he and Justin go into the Haus to be swallowed by the crowd. The Haus is loud and hot and Adam recognizes exactly no one, though he’s sure they’re late enough that most of the team must be kicking around. He loses Justin at some point, probably around the time he finishes his tub juice and goes looking for a beer.

The kitchen isn’t empty, but the guy has his head down on the table and it’s easy for Adam to ignore him as he opens the fridge, hoping that the box of beer on the counter isn’t his only option. It might be snobby, but he did his time in the juniors with warm beer. Adam digs around the outrageously large pot that’s been shoved into the fridge, slightly nervous about what could be in it and how long it’s been there, and eventually comes out victorious when he finds a cold can behind it. He knocks his head on the freezer handle as he straightens, but a sip of cold beer easily soothes the hurt.

“There another one in there?”

Adam starts at the voice, and not just because he thought the guy was passed out. It’s familiar but it’s been awhile since Adam’s caught an interview, longer still since he’s heard it in person. “Uh, I think this is the last cold one,” he says, slowly turning to see Kent Parson smirking at him.

“Ah, just my luck, eh Birkholtz?” he says. He looks good, bigger than Adam remembers, but that makes sense considering he’s been bulking up in The Show. All traces of the baby fat he had on his cheeks at 18 gone and he looks sharper, more dangerous somehow. He had been slouched forward, head pillowed on his forearms when Adam came into the kitchen, but now that he has Adam’s attention is sitting back in the chair, legs stretched out under the table like he owns the place. His arms flex as he clasps his hands behind his neck, and Adam does not get distracted by the tightness of his shirt across his chest. His snapback sits far back on his skull, like his cowlicks physically refuse to be tamed by the hat.

“Yeah Parson, you don’t have any luck.” Adam rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to finish what gravity is trying to do and flick the snapback off his head. He shoves his free hand deep into his pockets instead and leans against the counter. He clears his throat. “Congrats on the cup.”

Parson’s smirk turns into an actual smile but he ducks down to pick at a deep scratch in the wood of the kitchen table. He taps a beat into the awkward silence that has Adam staring at Parson and wondering if sleeping with a Stanley Cup champion feels different than sleeping with a Mem Cup champion.

“Heard about your draft,” Parson says when he looks up and catches Adam staring.

“What draft?” Adam asks instead of saying the same back to Parson. He slurps from the can, unable to imagine what it would be like after his friend or boyfriend or whatever Jack is (was?) to Parson overdosed let alone do it all with a smile and in front of cameras.

“Fucking touche.” He looks like he wants to say more, but someone clears their throat as they enter the kitchen and both Parson and Adam turn to see Jack looking uncomfortable in the doorway.

“Zimms,” Parson says, voice softer than it’d been talking to Adam.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asks. Adam is reasonably sure that he’s talking to Parson and not him so he busies himself with straightening empty beer cans that have been left on the counter, wondering if pushing past Jack to get out of the kitchen is too obvious. There’s a tension in the kitchen that wasn’t there the last time Adam was in the same room as them.

“Was in the neighbourhood,” Parson shrugs and even Adam can hear the lie.

“Cause New York’s just down the street,” Jack snorts. He pauses and considers Parson. Parson stares back eveningly, worrying at his lip with his teeth. “How’s your mom?” Jack eventually asks. He hasn’t moved from the doorway so Adam resigns himself to the awkwardness of the conversation.

“She’s good,” Parson says, breaking eye contact to pick at the corner of the table. “Work’s busy.”

Jack nods and seems to chew on another question, but before he can get it out, Sampson, a senior d-men, shoulders past him and into the kitchen. He salutes Adam standing in the corner and yanks the fridge open, just about slamming the handle into Adam’s hip. He ducks down and literally sticks his head in the fridge, looking for something.

“Aw shit,” Sampson says, voice echoing. “Someone took my fridge beer.”

Adam picks up his cold beer and wipes the condensation ring the cold can has left on the counter with the bottom of his shirt. “Weird.”

Sampson gets out of the fridge and narrows his eyes at Adam, but he’s quickly distracted when Parson snorts a laugh at the table. He swings his giant head to glare, and it’s almost comical how quickly the glare melts into something of a shocked expression, mouth gaping stupidly, as he takes in who is sitting at the table.

“Sup?” Parson says. He grins, but the dimples that he had when he spoke to Jack and Adam are gone.

Sampson stares until it starts to get uncomfortable and Adam kicks him in the shin.

“Zimmermann!” he shouts. Jack jumps at the outburst. He looks at Adam, and then Parson, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights, but Adam has no idea where Sampson is going with this so he just shrugs.

“You can’t hide a fucking NHL-er in this Haus, man,” Sampson continues. He crosses the kitchen in long strides to clap Jack on the shoulder. Jack flinches away from the touch—to be fair, it’s the most Adam’s seen him touch anyone when he’s not dressed to play—Sampson doesn’t notice as he pushes past Jack to stick his heads out into the hallway to holler, “Yo, Zimmermann has Kent Parson in here!”

The kitchen quickly becomes the place to be in the Haus. As more and more of their teammates pour in to soak up the presence of a “fucking beauty” NHL-er, Jack abandons his spot in the doorway, apparently sick of being bumped into by drunk, uncoordinated teammates. He takes up a spot beside Adam, arms folded and leaning against the counter, as at least half the ends fits themselves into the kitchen. Adam wants to be annoyed that it always seems to be on Jack’s terms when they share a space, but Jack must’ve showered since they booted earlier and Adam might be distracted trying to place if Jack is wearing cologne or if it’s just his soap that smells so good. Adam shakes his head at himself and tries to focus on the loud conversation that his team is trying to have with Parson.

“What’s it like living in the city of lights?” Gregger’s asking Parson.

“You must be get all the pussy you want,” Carson says before Parson can answer Gregger. Parson grins and shrugs. It doesn’t answer the question, but from the loud jeers and hoots that most of the team lets out, it’s enough of an answer to impress them. There’s a sharp intake of breath on Adam’s left, but he does Jack the favour of pretending he didn’t hear anything. It’s none of his business anyways.

“I can’t believe you’re here man,” Bergy says to Parson. He’s probably been drinking since Adam left the Haus in the afternoon so his words come out kinda slurred and he’s swaying slightly. “Like yeah, Zimmermann was NHL-bound—" he flaps a hand in Jack’s direction. “—but he’s one of us now so like, whatever.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say Zimms is nothing special,” Parson says with a wink that cracks Bergy and the others up. Adam is pretty sure he’s the only that notices that Jack takes a step away from Parson, but only because the step brings him closer into Adam’s space. Parson continues, “He’s gonna be playing with me sooner than any of you sorry fucks.” That sets off a round of laughter.

Jack and Adam don’t join in.

“There’s no rogue hockey players in my dorm,” Adam says to Jack quietly. If he’s uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken, he can’t imagine what Jack is feeling like. Jack stares at Parson, now listening intently to a retelling of the last time Samwell made the Frozen Four, before nodding and shouldering his way out of the kitchen. Adam glares for a beat, he should not be the one being left behind here, but follows, again wondering why every interaction he and Jack have ends up being on Jack’s terms.

Jack’s not in the hallway but Justin is.

“Bro, where have you been?” Justin asks over the music. His eyes are bright as he takes a sip from the full cup of tub juice he’s carrying.

“Lost you in the crowd, man,” Adam says.

Justin shakes his head. “So many people, right? It’s wicked.” He grins widely. “I even heard Kent Parson is here!”

“Yeah, kitchen.” Adam waves in that direction. Justin looks excited as he sees the crowd. He makes to join but stops when he realizes that Adam’s not following him.

“You coming Holtzy?” He comes back to hear Adam’s reply.

“Nah,” Adam says. “I’ve met him before and like, too many people in there so...” He shrugs.  

Justin’s brows furrow for a minute while he connects the dots. “Oh right, he played with Jack.” His eyes widen comically. “Shit man, do you hate Parson too?”

Adam snorts but can’t say if it’s the _too_ or the _hate_ that makes him laugh. “Nah, just not feeling it right now.” He pauses. “I’m gonna head back.”  

“Oh. Do you want me to come with?” Justin asks, looking like he’d abandon his solo cup no problem if Adam said yes.

“Nah man, you enjoy. Thanks though.” Adam is touched by the offer. He holds out a fist for a bump, which Justin happily gives. “I’ll see you tomorrow though, eh? I expect deets.” Justin laughs loudly, punches Adam in the shoulder and then he’s gone, pushing his way into the kitchen.

Jack’s standing on the porch, hands deep in his pockets when Adam finally gets out of the Haus.

«Took long enough,» Jack says in French, rolling his eyes. He’s glaring.

“I’m doing you a fucking favour,” Adam snaps. Jack’s eyebrows go up and he stares at Adam. Adam stares right back. He’s very tempted to just leave and make Jack go back to the kitchen.

“I forgot you speak French,” Jack mutters eventually, looking away. It’s probably as close to an apology as Adam is going to get so he just shakes his head and pushes past Jack to jump down the porch steps. He takes some pleasure in hearing Jack’s quick footsteps to catch up to him.

Unsurprisingly, they don’t talk during the walk to Adam’s dorms. It would’ve been an awkward silence the whole way, but it’s a Friday night and the Haus isn’t the only place people are partying. There’s a constant background sound of music, of people shouting and laughing and having a better Friday night, even when they get to the dorm building. It all becomes muffled when Adam closes the door to his single though. Now the silence is awkward.

“Make yourself comfortable or whatever,” Adam says, kicking his shoes in the direction of his open closet. He wishes he hadn’t torn apart his room earlier, but there was nothing he can do about it now. It not like Jack isn't already judging him anyways.

“Thanks,” Jack said quietly. Adam grunts and settles on his bed with his laptop. He brings up Netflix while Jack toes out of his shoes and crosses the room to stand next to the bed.

“You wanna watch something?” Adam tilts his laptop so Jack can see what it’s on. Jack just stares, not glaring or frowning or anything and jeez, Adam isn’t used to that. It makes him kind of nervous actually and reminds him that he could have a non-hockey crush on Jack if he wasn’t such an asshole. He starts rambling to cover the feelings. “Have you seen the Office? I’m pretty sure you haven’t lived if you haven’t—” He’s cut off by Jack’s mouth against his.

Again, Adam’s memory didn’t do Jack justice. His lips feel familiar but there’s something more now, something extra that wasn’t there the last time they kissed, and Adam savours it without being about to name whatever it is. At this point, he doesn't care. He and Jack bump noses before the closed mouth press of lips turns into something deeper, and Jack kneels on the bed so he’s not hovering awkwardly above Adam anymore. Adam blindly shuts his laptop, and shoves it down to the foot of the bed, debating how he can communicate that he wants Jack in his lap without detaching himself from Jack’s lips. Before he figures that out though, there’s a knock on his door.

Jack jumps and scrambles to get off the bed. When he stands, he stares at Adam and Adam actually watches the realization of what they were just doing cross Jack’s face. Whoever is at the door knocks again and instead of saying anything to Adam, Jack turns and opens the door.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack says in response to whoever is there. Adam isn’t sure what’s happening until Jack reaches out and pulls Parson into his room by the collar of his shirt. The door slams loudly.

“Uh?” Adam says. He looks between Jack and Parson, while Parson looks between him and Jack and Jack does his best not to look at either of them.

“So the good looking d-man, Ransom I think, told me where your dorm was,” Parson says, messing up his snapback as he scratches his neck. “When I asked I mean. I uh, saw you leave and well. I didn’t come to talk to your team.” He directs that last part at Jack. It’s soft and Adam feels like he’s intruding in his own room. He shifts on the bed.

“Why are you here, Kenny?” Jack asks. Parson’s expression does something complicated then, and he stares at the ground, his jaw working. When he looks up, he’s smiling but it’s all teeth, no dimples.

“Like I said, I was in the neighbourhood,” he says.

Jack rolls his eyes, but he grabs Parson’s collar again, this time to haul him in for a kiss. Adam's eyebrows go up, and he watches the two of them battle something out with their mouths. It’s like driving past an accident; you know you’re not supposed to look but you can’t help but stare. There’s a flash of teeth and a groan follows, though Adam couldn’t tell who it came from. Parson loses the battle, or maybe wins—Adam doesn’t understand the rules—and steps closer to press his body against Jack’s, gripping his hips tight. His kisses start to look messier and he’s not hitting Jack’s mouth anymore, and with a drag of lips starts mouthing his way along Jack’s jaw and down his neck, knocking his snapback off. Jack groans. Adam knows it’s him this time, can see it in the way his throat moves.

Just as Adam starts to feel like an accidental voyeur, unsure if breaking up whatever is happening would be more or less awkward than letting it continue, Jack catches Adam’s eye. Adam blushes but Jack doesn’t seem to care that they have an audience. Instead he tilts his head in something of an invitation, moaning loud when Parson finds a sweet spot. Adam gets up off his bed slowly. He moves faster when Jack makes an impatient sound and walks Parson backwards until Jack can reach out and grab Adam’s shirt to pull him in. For the second time that night, Adam finds himself kissing Jack Zimmermann, but it’s so much more intense with the addition of feeling and hearing Parson suck a hickey into the soft skin of Jack’s throat.

“This is okay?” Jack asks when Adam pulls back to take a breath. Parson pulls away from Jack’s neck to wait for Adam’s reply. Adam doesn’t remember either of them looking so good kiss-swollen lips last time he was in this position.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning back in, expecting to kiss Jack. Parson sneaks in through and nips and sucks at Adam’s tongue.

“Asshole,” Jack says, dropping his forehead onto Adam’s collarbone. His breath is heavy and wet against Adam’s skin, made even more so when he starts biting and then soothing the marks with his tongue.

Adam can’t help the moan that rips from his throat as he realizes that Parson has worked his way into Jack’s pants, pushing them low enough that Jack’s cock hangs out, and while Parson fucks Adam’s mouth with tongue, Parson is letting Jack fuck his hand. Adam wants in on that, wants to touch someone’s cock but Parson’s plastered himself against Adam and is rubbing himself on Adam’s thigh in tandem with the way he is moving his tongue so the angle to touch Parson’s cock is too awkward for Adam’s wrist. He's able to work a hand around the one that Parson has curled around Jack’s cock and squeezes so Jack has something tighter to fuck into. Jack bites Adam hard for that and Adam hisses, a warmth spreading in his stomach as he remembers the marks from last time, and experiences the weirdest sense of deja vu, though he's pretty sure they weren't coordinated to do something as complicated as this last time. Jack pushes both of their hands off his cock and tugs on Adam’s shirt. Adam pulls away from Parson’s mouth, who makes a noise of protest until Jack pulls him in for a kiss. Adam pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere.

Parson and Jack make a pretty picture, somehow working with and against each other at the same time, and Adam takes the moment to step completely out of his pants. He keeps his boxers on, but palms himself as he sinks to his knees. He lets go of his own cock to use both hands to undo Parson’s belt and pull his pants and underwear down. It’s only when Parson’s cock comes free that Adam remembers that he’s circumcised so Adam gets back up to root around in his bed side drawer for lube. He pours some on his right hand when he finds it, warming it up between his fingers, before going back to his knees and wrapping his hand around Parson. Parson groans deep in his throat. Adam jacks him a couple times to find his rhythm there before grabbing Jack’s cock at the base with his left hand to steady it while he licks a stripe that follows the vein along the bottom. It takes a minute or so to remember to move his right hand as he relaxes his jaw and takes Jack as deep, swirling his tongue as he does, but neither Jack nor Parson complain when the blowie gets outta sync with the handy or vice versa.

Jack warns him that he’s close with a hand against his forehead that pushes Adam off his cock completely. He turns his hips away from Adam and comes into his own hand with a groan that sounds like it was punched out of him. Parson starts to rock his hips faster at the sound. Adam leans over to lick at the head of his cock.

“Don’t, or I’m gonna come in your mouth,” Parson says, breathless. Adam takes the invitation and opens his mouth, gripping the back of Parson’s right thigh to encourage him to fuck into his mouth. Adam angles it so that rather than hit the back of his throat, Parson’s cock hits the inside of his cheek. He uses his left hand on what doesn’t fit in his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” Jack says from somewhere over Adam’s shoulder, and that’s all it takes for Parson to finish. Adam swallows as much as possible, though he feels some drip down to his chin. He reaches for something to wipe his mouth with, but instead is hauled to his feet by Jack. He can hear Parson catching his breath, but it’s just background noise; returning Jack’s kisses takes all of his concentration.

Jack has the brainpower to multitask though, and he walks Adam back until the backs of his knees hit the his bed. Adam lets himself be pushed back, so that he’s lying diagonally on the bed, legs hanging off with knees bent so his feet are still on the ground. Jack falls on top of Adam, catching himself on his elbows, so he has the leverage to work his way down Adam’s body, nipping and sucking as he goes.

Adam just about bucks Jack off him completely when Pason sucks him down with no warning, after having pushed apart Adam's knees to make room for himself. Adam hadn’t forgotten there was another person involved, but he's been very distracted by Jack biting around his left nipple. Parson blows air out of his nose and into Adam’s pubes in what Adam guesses is some approximation of a laugh, and Adam can feel the shape of Jack’s smile against his chest.

“Fuck off,” Adam groans out as Parson does something particularly tricky with his tongue. Adam grabs at his comforter and flexes his toes, simultaneously wishing for this to stop and for it to never end. His head is fuzzy with the need to come, and he tries to tell Parson that, but something gets lost in communication as both Parson and Jack pull off at the same time, and now the the only contact Adam has with either is a tight hand around the base of his cock.

“Wha-?” Adam says stupidly, blinking up at Jack who’s sitting back on his haunches looking down at Parson who’s sitting back on his knees to look up at Jack. They seem to be having a silent conversation that Adam wishes would hurry up so he can finish. He’s about to smack Parson’s hand away so and finish what he started when Jack turns so he’s facing away from Adam. It’s a very nice view of a very nice back, but Adam’s confused until Jack ducks down, and Adam’s cock gets caught in the middle of a sloppy kiss between Jack and Parson.

Adam throws his head back and loses himself in the feeling of two mouths on him. Jack moves, wiggling to get comfortable on his stomach, and suddenly Adam’s cock is entirely in his mouth. He pulls off completely to catch his breath before ducking back down to take just the tip in between his lips. Adam isn’t sure if he should move or not so he lays there for a moment, until there’s something wet and warm licking at his hole and he jumps and ends up thrusting into Jack’s mouth and Jack takes it easily before getting back to giving Adam one of the best blow jobs he’s ever been on the receiving end of all while Parson eats him out like his has something to prove.  Adam holds for as long as he can, but it’s still over very quickly and he nearly whites out from how hard he comes. He vaguely hopes that he was able to make Parson and Jack feel this good as he comes back to himself.

This time Adam’s the one who stays in bed, watching as Kent and Jack wordlessly pull on their clothes, after everyone cleans up as best they can with the baby wipes he keeps around because walking down to bathroom for a wet cloth is very far walk. Parson catches his eye ever so often and smirks when Adam blushes. He makes getting dressed look almost as good as getting undressed. Jack is blushing too, and he works hard to make sure that he doesn’t catch anyone’s eye.  

Adam doesn’t invite either of them to stay.

Jack’s done first; he shifts from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his pockets, while he waits for Parson to finish fussing with his Aces snapback in the mirror on the door of Adam’s wardrobe.

“It’s fine, Christ,” Jack snaps.

“Jesus fuck, take a pill Zimms. Some of us have an imagine to maintain,”  Parson says, giving his hat one last tweak. Jack stiffens at his words, jaw clenching, and Adam suddenly wishes hiding under the blankets would actually make him disappear entirely.

He’d thought Jack’s indifference hurt, but the filthy look that Jack sends to Parson makes all interactions Jack and Adam have had since Adam’s started at Samwell seem tame in comparison. Parson stiffens—Adam’s not sure if it’s from the venom in Jack’s expression or if he just realized what he said and who he said it to—and turns away from the mirror to look at Jack.

“Zimms, I didn’t mean-”

“Lose my fucking number,” Jack spits. He adds something else, too low for Adam to make out but Parson hears him perfectly if his physical recoil is anything to go by. Without another look at Adam, Jack wrenches the door open, hard enough that it loudly bangs into the wall. Adam doesn’t have time to be pissed about the damage to his room before Jack slams the door behind him. The silence rings without him. Parson stares at the closed door, eyes wide. Adam has to look away; the expression is so raw that Adam’s gut clenches and he doesn’t have years of intimate history with him. 

“Well, that went well,” Adam says when he can’t stand the heavy silence anymore. Parson doesn’t move from his staring contest with the door. Adam stands and finds a pair of boxers on the floor to step into. He's just tucked himself in and is moving to maybe give Parson some sort of physical comfort when Parson apparently loses the staring contest.

“Fuck off Birkholtz,” he says suddenly, in a very delayed reaction. He’s taken his hat off again and runs a hand through his hair, messing up anything he’d fixed before. “Fuck,” he exhales. “Fuck!” He punctuates the sudden shout by throwing his hat against the wall.

“Christ, Parson, the hat did nothing wrong,” Adam says. He instantly knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as it’s out there, even before Parson turns suddenly to glare at him. It has nothing on the glare Jack left the room with, but it’s still dark enough that Adam takes a step back.

“Who the fuck asked you?” Parson spits. “You’re just as bad as him, fucking wasting your time at this fucking school. Fucking pair of losers; can’t hack it in the big league.”

Adam stares at Parson. He looks like he just skated a double shift, colour high in his cheeks and chest heaving. His neck is a mess of mouth shaped bruises and he looks absolutely wrecked as freckles that Adam's never noticed before stand out starkly on his furious face.  On anyone else, Adam would say that they looked vulnerable, but there’s something in Parson’s eyes that makes him look more dangerous than anything else so Adam has to defend himself before there's any permanent damage.

“Because you look like you’re doing so well up there,” Adam says, ignoring Parson’s flinch. “Get the fuck out.” When Parson doesn’t make a move to leave, Adam straightens his spine and uses the six inches he has on Parson, stepping forward so Parson has to crane his neck to keep eye contact. “Fucking leave!” he says.

“Fuck you!” Parson snaps with an eyeroll. He yanks the door open just as hard as Jack did, so it bounces off the wall, but doesn’t slam it behind himself. Adam has to go over and slam the door himself for any sort of satisfaction.

He doesn’t find any.

Instead, he finds a shirt to pull on for the walk to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth before bed. He glares the entire time, confused as to how his night had so many twists.

He’s not sorry about anything he said to Parson, in fact more than a little pissed off that he didn’t get to say more after what Parson had to say about him, but chances were he wouldn’t be seeing Parson any time soon. He still has to play with Jack though, and he can’t slow down figure out how exactly he’s going to do that so he finishes in the bathroom and decides that's a problem for later. There's no mandatory hockey until Sunday at least.

Back in his room, Adam downs half a gatorade that's been rolling around his fridge for a while and finds his phone is his discarded jeans before he gets back into his bed with a half full water bottle. He takes a sip, already feeling a headache coming even though he didn't drink nearly enough to be hungover, and curls up on the side nearest to the wall, furthest from the part of the duvet that smells like sex and Jack and Parson, and taps the screen to find that he has several texts.   

 **> >Ransom:** _why is kent PArson asking where your dorm is_

 **> >Ransom:** _???_

**> >Ransom: ** _should i tell hm?_

**> >Ransom: ** _him*_

**> >Ransom:** _im did it_

 **> >Ransom:** _i*_

 **> >Ransom: **_u o me deetz_  

Adam’s stomach clenches. He sends something back so he doesn’t leave Ransom on _read_ before thumbing out of the conversation and back to the main page. He’s still for a moment before violently kicking off his duvet, kicking harder when it gets caught on his foot. It eventually goes on the floor and he’s left lying in his boxers and the shirt he was too lazy to take off. He debates running down the hall to throw up, but doesn’t think his stomach hurts in that kind of way so he just closes his eyes and hopes sleeps come quickly.

It doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> (but actually so sorry [lol] this took so long. i got stuck at the middle parts, then moved cities, then got caught up in "[omgcpwomen week](https://omgcpwomen.tumblr.com/post/164896828857/omgcpwomen-omgcheckplease-women-week%22) stuff [check that out if you haven't!!!], then went to a coffee shop to write today but got distracted by emailing the president of a hockey club in my hometown about their racist logo, then went to another coffee shop and finished the middle scene i was stuck on but came home and figured a threesome was an awesome way to write porn for only the second the time in my life *sarcasm hand* and now here we are. i'm posting at 3am because i'm done and want this out of my hands)
> 
> come hang out on [tumblr](http://chocolatechipcookiesplease.tumblr.com/post/162362166598/sorry-to-the-unknown-lover)!

**Author's Note:**

> don't ask me about that ending. assume hoslter's also bitter about kent but in a different way because he's like untouchable in the nhl i guess? maybe there's a repeat of what happens the night of the mem cup the first time kent comes to the haus, who knows (there totally is and it's as messy as you'd think)
> 
> My [tumblr](http://pongpalace.tumblr.com/post/162362166598/sorry-to-the-unknown-lover) if you wanna shout in the tags with me :)


End file.
